I was at the drive-in with my girlfriend, Ciara. We were a sixteen year-old couple, watching "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre". It was opening night, and it was jammed packed. The gore fest in front of our eyes was unbelievable. And then, holy crap! Ciara suddenly came onto me, and in an instant, we were making out. She kept rubbing my chest, so I was obviously doing well. Then she started to slowly move the rubbing hand down my chest to my crotch. If it'd gone any further, it would've sucked, cause I wasn't planning on getting laid that night and wasn't protected. Now, I hated to do this, but I had to make up a b.s. excuse. I told her I'm thirsty and going to get a drink. She leaned away from me, surprisingly patiently, and allowed me to go get a drink. I ask her if she wanted something, and she said a root-beer. Surprise, surprise. That's all she ever drinks. I turned my back on fictional murdering, gore, sex and also on real sex. What the hell was wrong with me?

So I'm at the concession stand. It's inside a little weird building in the middle of the drive-in, with the three projectors on the side. I'm ordering two root beers, and a bowl of nachos to split. The waitress says wait fifteen minutes, the chef went out to make a run for nacho chips. So I take a seat at one of the piece of crap tables. The wooden legs are uneven, so every time I shift my weight leaning on the table, it rocks. A car horn honks outside. It's a a broken down, waste-of-a-junk pile 50's roadster. I don't know the make. I snicker at the stupidity of the driver, who sounds so proud of his waste of money, he has to announce his entry.

"What an idiot" I semi-muttered to myself.

"You are absolutely right". I looked across to the table in front of me to see a rough-looking man with a huge scar down the left side of his face. enjoying his nachos with all the toppings: jalapeños, cheese, sour cream, salsa, and ground beef. The same nachos I would've been eating with my girlfriend, if not for this beast. And that's what the guy loked like. He was rough, with an Elvis reminiscent haircut, cowboy boots, a black tank-top, and black sunglasses so dark, you couldn't see his eyes. I can't deny, the guy looked badass.

"No real, self-respecting man would ever drive that piece of crap" he said. He got up, dabbing the nacho condiments off his mouth and walked over to me.

"Oh ya?" I ask, "What you drive"?

He gave me a creepily charming grin, raising his arm to point out the window. A Black 1970 Challenger sat in the parking space he pointed at. It gave off a vibe I couldn't describe, other than death. It was awesome. My eyes were fixated. I didn't know why. It was just a car. But maybe it was my raging envy. I had wanted to buy that exact model of car when it first came out, but I was too young.

"That is my ride" he said. The charisma in his voice was unwavering. He could ask the waitress over there to get on her knees and go to work, and I doubt she wouldn't do it. The beast of a man, with his beast of a car, just smiled at me.

"Stuntman Mike" he introduced himself as.

"Stuntman?" I asked, "Anything I've seen"?

"Oh, a couple TV shows. Nothin' to brag about". I was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, considering the shape this guy was in.

"So you do the real crazy stuff with the cars"?

""Oh, ya! That beauty of a car o' mine, she is a bonified stunt car. 100% Death Proof". I looked up at him.

"Really?" I said in awe. He looked down at me, grinning that creepy grin again and said:

"Wanna take a ride in it"?

So four minutes pass and then we were on the road, speeding 100/mph over the limit, with a car branding a skull with two lightning bolts across replacing the dog bones. It was wicked. The inside of the car was a box, at least on the passenger side. Right before I had got in, there had been only a rod that would've been shoved up my ass. Stuntman Mike said that when directors wanted a camera in the car, to film a crash or a chase, they'd put it on a rod, stick it in the rod inside the car, lock it in, and bam. Interior-vehicular footage.

The cars at our side zoomed behind us. It looked as if time had stopped outside. The man that was the Evil Knievel at the wheel yelled with pleasure and excitement. I had no seat. It was basically one of those excuse-for-a-chair butt frames, so I was leaning against the frame of the car, holding on to the handicapped grip for support. We were living on the edge. The engine howled and roared of live, sending my adrenaline up a good thousand notches. I couldn't believe that if we crashed at this speed, we'd survive.

"Hey Mike"!

"Ya"!

"How is this thing death proof!" I asked.

"Well," he went on to explain "when you put a crazy guy behind the wheel of a car while on film, when he's supposed to crash for show, there's a good chance that he could die. So what they do, is they send each car off to the chop shops. To toughen' her up. So when she comes back, you're locked in that car so tight, the reaper runs in fear, and you can just laugh in his face".

We got back to the drive-in about five minutes later, so my nacho's would be ready, and there was also Ciara, sitting alone in the car, so I knew I had to get back. I looked over at Mike.

"Guy like you? Come on! Your probably getting the royal treatment". I lightened up and laughed. Maybe I would find this guy and ride with him again sometime. Who knew? I turned back at the last minute.

"Hey Mike"!

"Yo!" he replied.

"What kind of messed up childhood did you have?" I joked. His face lost a bit of it's charm.

"Let's just say, I had an unhappy childhood, but I left it all a long time ago".

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